The sandwich was so good. Nothing else mattered in that moment except the tastes exploding in her mouth. She heard a moaning sound similar to the one she made during sex, and yes, that was about equal. This turkey sandwich was as good as an orgasm.
And that was another thing. She couldn’t get enough sex. Normal, according to the literature. Bradley was certainly happy, but as soon as the orgasm faded, Melissa found herself increasingly irritable with her husband. He’d cut back on his hours at the practice so he could “share these months” with her.
“You can share them, of course,” she’d said the first time he’d come home early. “But I know how important your patients are to you.” The fact that he came home at five fifteen every day was bad enough. At least Dennis had had long hours and emergencies.
The second time he’d done it, she said, “I really love my time here alone, sweetheart, but it’s so sweet of you to check in. Text me next time, okay?” Then she’d gone upstairs and taken a nap, and he was grumpy because she hadn’t jumped him. Which she did later, and not to appease his mood but because he was closer than her vibrator.
The third time, when he appeared at 3:00 p.m., she said, “For the love of God, Bradley, get back to the office! You’re driving me crazy!” She’d been just about to take some pictures for Instagram, and she didn’t want him watching. He’d left, chuckling over his pregnant wife’s mood swings, which made her want to stab him in the back of the neck.
He’d left, but he’d ruined her good energy for the photos, and she anger-ate some ice cream.
Today, a professional photographer was coming for some of those “me and my bump” shots. A few tasteful nudes, like Beyoncé or all those Victoria’s Secret models. Before the photographer arrived, though, she wanted to take a good look at herself. She needed to know which angles were best for the bump reveal.
Honestly, after seeing how . . . fat . . . she looked in the video , Melissa was a little scared to take a hard look at her body. Lately, her breasts ached and were mapped by blue veins. Also, the headlights were on, as the boys in her high school used to say. All the time, rubbing against her lacy bras. She’d taken to wearing her Lululemon yoga bras, but even those were getting too small.
She said a silent prayer to the universe that a lifetime of fitness would pay off as she got ready to strip in her closet. Best light, best mirror. Of course, she was getting a little rounder. She accepted that. She walked for an hour every day, on the elliptical if it was cold. She did prenatal yoga with two other women at the studio in town. She ate well （with those few cheats, which were to be expected）。 Of course she’d be beautiful in pregnancy. The universe wouldn’t fail her like that, would it?
Well, the moment was here. She stood in front of the huge antique mirror, slipped off her robe, took a deep breath and opened her eyes.
The universe had turned on her.
Melissa’s breath left her in a rush. That couldn’t be her, could it? She moved her hand just in case. It was her. She burst into tears. No! No! She was huge! She was hideous and huge and wide, like Jabba the Hutt! Her body was a slobby triangle with her head as its tiny point. Yes, she’d known her breasts had grown, but these things were massive, the size of hefty watermelons! She looked like . . . like . . . like one of those women on Botched （one of her favorite TV shows） who’d gone way too far with implants. And what had happened to her . . . areolas? They were bright red and huge. Huge! The size of a saucer or something.
Her baby bump was lost in what looked like . . . like . . . like fat. It didn’t jut out, tight and round. In fact . . . did she even look pregnant? Or did she look . . . like pudding?
She looked like pudding. A wobbly, white pile of tapioca. Wait, what was this? Splotchy stripes of pink on her stomach. A rash? Stretch marks? No, not yet!
Now that she was full-on sobbing, she felt a liquid heat between her legs. Oh, no! Was she bleeding? She raced to the bathroom.
No blood.
It was pee. She’d just peed herself.
Something must be wrong. She was not supposed to look like this. She called Dr. Owens’s office and said it was an emergency.
Twenty minutes later, she sat in the exam room. Dr. Owens came in. “Hi, Melissa. What’s going on?” she asked.
“Something’s wrong. Look at me!”
“Any pain? Bleeding? Cramping?”
“No. But . . . this can’t be right.” She gestured to herself.
“What can’t be right?” Dr. Owens asked.